


don't wanna taco 'bout it

by RedEyedRyu



Category: Deltarune (Video Game), Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fell Sans has a potty mouth, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 18:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEyedRyu/pseuds/RedEyedRyu
Summary: Written for the Undertale Secret Santa event on Tumblr.Sans has to go shopping for his brother because Papyrus is clearly too busy for such things. While out, Sans winds up meeting an interesting character from Deltarune who just so happens to grab the last item on his list. Go figure it’s the last one on the shelf, no less.





	don't wanna taco 'bout it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poetax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetax/gifts).



Sans wakes up groggy, mind clouded in a haze, and scrubs at his eye sockets in an effort to chase away the last dredges of sleep. He grumbles, lets loose a growling expletive, and reluctantly rolls himself off his mattress and onto the carpeted floor mere inches below.

_‘s probably well past the time i shoulda gotten outta bed anyway_ , he thinks to himself, already missing his bed.

He palms along the edge of the mattress from his spot on the floor, blankets still tangled around his legs, before his phalanges meet with his quarry, wrapping around the device and pulling it to his face.

Unlocking it, Sans squints at the blinding light of his phone’s screen, finally pushing himself up from the ground, blankets falling haphazardly to the floor as he stands. He checks the time and notes that it’s well into mid-afternoon; Papyrus will have left for work hours ago. Not even bothering to try and fix his bed, Sans makes his way to the door and pockets his phone in his shorts.

Strange, he thinks as he trudges along the short hallway and into the living room, that Boss hadn’t stormed into his room at the ass-crack of dawn to _encourage_ him to get out of bed as he does every other god damn morning. To start the day at a more “respectable” hour—whatever the hell _that_ ’s supposed to mean. But hey, Sans isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As he enters the kitchen, phalanges dipped under his shirt and scratching at his ribs, Sans makes a beeline towards the fridge. A good ol’ bottle of mustard sounds like the _perfect_ way to start the day.

Just as he steps within sight of the fridge, his gaze is immediately drawn to the brand-new sticky note stuck to it, that obnoxious yellow (a mockery of one of his favorite edibles) unmistakable. Simultaneously, he  also registers what can only be a list held in place beside the note by a small chili pepper magnet. Sans’s expression crinkles, mood instantly souring. Of fuckin’ course Boss’d want him to run his damn errands for him. _Again._ Some things never change, surface or not; no matter how many times Sans tells his brother he ain’t some kinda boot-lickin’ lacky to order around as he pleases.

Sans practically stomps his way to the fridge and snatches the note up, barely managing to hold himself back from just crumpling it up and chucking it in the garbage.

It reads as follows: 

> SANS! WE ARE RUNNING LOW ON SEVERAL KEY ITEMS IN MAINTAINING A PROPERLY STOCKED KITCHEN. MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL AND REPLENISH OUR SUPPLIES! I HAVE LEFT YOU A LIST, GO AND PICK UP EVERYTHING I HAVE WRITTEN DOWN. I EXPECT THE PANTRY FULLY STOCKED TO MY STANDARDS BY THE TIME I RETURN HOME THIS EVENING.
> 
> \- THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS

“tch.” Sans growls, crumpling the little piece of paper in his hand before chucking it in the general direction of the garbage like he should have done in the first place. He doesn’t check to see whether or not it found its mark.

“yeah, sure, boss. whateva tha fuck ya say, cause it ain’t like i got nuttin’ better t’do.” He doesn’t (it’s one of his coveted days off, after all) but still, what he decides to do with his time is his choice. However, if he doesn't get this done Papyrus will no doubt ride his ass about his lazy, slobbish, lay-about habits the second he comes home and that's something Sans can do without.

So he yanks the list from the fridge, fast enough that it slides from under the magnet without disturbing it. He doesn't even glance at the paper, simply stuffs it in a pocket as he grumbles under his breath and makes his way back to his room. He snatches up his jacket, pockets his wallet, and slips into his sneakers.

“fuckin’ fine,” he growls to himself, imagining he’s speaking to his brother. “i’ll do yer stupid fuckin’ shoppin’.”

And with a final “tch.” Sans takes a shortcut.

 * * *

Despite his best efforts to get this done as fast as possible, it’s already been an hour by the time Sans reaches the final item on the stupid grocery list. Checking it once more, he squints and reads, “ ‘special extra spicy, chunky salsa’?” Out of everything on the list, this particular item has been circled and underlined several times. Apparently Boss _really_ wants it.  “th’ fuck’s this shit?” Sans squints hard, pulling the heavily wrinkled piece of paper closer to his face. He’s not familiar with whatever the hell it is for sure but he has a vague recollection of salsa being some kind of dipping sauce. For chips or something? He’s not sure but he thinks the kid had mentioned it and whatever the hell nachos were several times. Something about setting their mouth on fire but that the cheesy goodness seals the deal. Maybe they had talked to Boss about it?

Whatever, he thinks, crumpling the paper once more and depositing it back in his pocket. He just needs to grab it and he can get back to his favorite past time: doing nothing.

It takes a few minutes before Sans is finally able to locate the salsa near the produce, stocked next to the refrigerated dressings and juice drinks. As he reaches for the bottle, absently noting there’s only one “special extra spicy, chunky salsa” left, he smirks.

Gotcha, ya piece of shit. He’ll be done with this annoying errand and better yet, Papyrus won’t be able to give him any shit. Talk about a win-win.

Just before he’s able to wrap his clawed phalanges around the glass container, however, someone beats him to it.

“hey!” Sans shouts, his voice rumbling with a barely suppressed growl. His gaze homes in on the blue-gloved fingers wrapped around the jar, trails up a white arm, and finally settles on the face of a monster he’s never seen before. His sockets narrow in a glare as he stares at their stupid spade-shaped face, as he notes their clueless expression. He hates that he can’t discern the monster’s eyes (whether they even have any) but with no small level of satisfaction, Sans notes that the unfamiliar monster is shorter than him.

“cough it up, ya runt!” he threatens, trying to use every inch he has on the monster in the hopes of intimidating them into submission. He doesn’t have the time nor patience to deal with this and like hell is he going to pass up what appears the most important thing on Papyrus’s list.

The monster—the absolute _dumbass_ , however, just clutches the jar of salsa to their chest.

“No way, you clown!” they shoot back as they wrap their arms around the jar. “Finders, keepers!”

Sans growls. Impatience and anger rising. Who the hell is this idiot? Don’t they know who he is? Don’t they know who they’re picking a fight with? Maybe he oughtta educate them. Just ‘cause they’re on the surface doesn’t mean he’s not due the same respect he held Underground.

Decision made, he grabs them by the collar of their stupid shirt, the dark fabric bunching up in his claws. Sans absently notes the blue spade smack dab in the middle of the shirt ( _th’ hell’s up with this guy and spades?_ ) as he yanks them to his face.

“i don’t think ya know who yer talkin’ to.” He bares his teeth in a serrated smirk and channels just enough magic to the iris of his left eye socket, now alight with a smokey red haze. “if ya don’t wanna be the next clean-up on aisle 5, i suggest ya hand that over, _bud._ ” He can’t see their eyes but their mouth gapes open in an ‘o’, their body trembling.

_good_ , Sans thinks, _fuckin’ piss yerself ‘n terror. that’ll teach ya to dick ‘round with me._ The edges of his serrated smirk quirk higher. He holds the monster for a beat longer, to better drive his point home, before he all but throws them onto the ground.

The monster lands with an “oof” but otherwise doesn’t move or say anything, only proceeds to stare up at the skeleton, mouth still open, body still shaking. Sans interprets this as having made his point clear. He closes his sockets, dispelling his magic as he lets loose a chuckle. He stoops over the flabbergast monster, ready to nab the jar of salsa and finally, _finally_ get his ass out of here, when the runt shoots up and has the gall to get up in _his_ face.

“WHOA!” the monster cries out, their tone light and laced with a tinge of awe. And in that moment Sans realizes they hadn’t been trembling in fear—no, that had been... _excitement_? Like a stars be damned Temmie. “You’re really good at that!” they continue, and Sans gets the odd sense that they’re giving him a wide, starry-eyed expression.

The fuck?

The skeleton’s expression crumples in equal parts confusion and annoyance. He shoves the monster away with a growled, “get offa me,” and glares at them, though they appear completely unperturbed. For a brief second, the skeleton is caught off guard by the monster’s weird, child-like behavior. Beads of liquid magic begin to dot his skull as a memory flashes in his mind—of Frisk and how they had treated him (still treat him, if he’s being completely honest) back when they had first met in the underground. The kid hadn’t been scared by his huffin’ and puffin’ either but this monster ain’t a kid—they ain’t wearin’ stripes! The hell’s wrong with ‘em?!

“th’ fuck’re you talkin’ about?” he all but snarls.

The weirdo brings their hands to their face, cupping their cheeks (and smooshing the jar of salsa up against the side of their face in the process) and hunch forward. They exclaim, “Being bad! You’re really good at it, for a sweaty clown!”

Sans is dumbstruck; completely and utterly speechless.

The monster continues to speak. “You should teach me!” they proclaim.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at them, eyes going dark.

What. the. Fuck.

What the hell kind of day is this? First Boss’s making him do shit he hates and now he’s got some weird ass monster wanting him to teach them how to be _bad,_ of all things? _What the actual fuck._

“yer fuckin’ nuts,” he says for lack of anything else.

The monster merely tilts their head, the tip of the black spade (that Sans is beginning to speculate is part of their actual face and not some kind of fashion statement) quirking as if in thoughtful contemplation.

“No,” they respond, their free hand shifting to hold their index finger against their chin. “I’m not Nuts, I’m Lancer!”

Sans blinks. And then blinks again. And then he blinks once more, just for good measure, eye lights finally settling back into existence within his sockets, though his skull is still beaded in magical sweat. Is this guy for real? There’s no way. But the sincere, if not hopeful and expectant way they’re looking at him….

“i don’t care,” Sans snaps. He frowns as the monster only seems to perk up at the dismissal. Fuckin’ weirdo. “‘n i ain’t got time for this.”

Before the runt can muster up a response, Sans summons a bit of magic, coils it around the jar of salsa and _pulls._ He wraps his claws around the jar as it lands in his outstretched palm and smirks in triumph. There’s a surprised exclamation from the monster but before they can say or do anything, Sans takes a shortcut.

He ain’t stickin’ around to wait for anymore bullshit to drop on his plate.

* * *

 When Papyrus returns later that evening he’s gobsmacked by the fact Sans had actually managed to so thoroughly complete his given task. And that he had managed to get everything on the list, no less!

“I AM PROUD OF YOU, BROTHER!” Papyrus says as he puffs up his chest, fists propped on the crests of his hip bones peeking over the top of his slick, black pants. “YOU HAVE MANAGED NOT TO DISAPPOINT ME FOR ONCE!”

“thanks, boss.” Sans replies from his reclined position on the couch as he fidgets with a bottle of mustard. He’ll take the backhanded compliment over the alternative.

“PERHAPS YOU SHOULD DO THE SHOPPING FROM NOW ON!” the taller skeleton announces, as if struck by a stroke of absolute brilliance. “THIS IS BUT STEP ONE IN YOU FINALLY OVERCOMING YOUR SLOTHFUL WAYS!”

Sans grimaces, not only at the thought of _chores_ but also at the memory of that strange spade-themed monster. He’d really rather not chance running into that guy again. He squeezes a generous amount of mustard into his mouth before replying, “dunno ‘bout makin’ this a regular thing, boss. don’t think i’ve got the guts for it.”

Sans doesn’t even try to suppress his chuckles as Papyrus lets loose a howling, offended screech.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small, silly little thing. No idea how or why Lancer's on the surface and in the Fell universe... It's probably best we don't think too hard on that.
> 
> There are no tacos involved but I couldn't come up with any salsa related puns so. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
